The highway is full of big cars
going nowhere fast
And folks is smoking anything that
Some people wrap their lies around
And you sit wondering

Her arms semaphore fat triangles,
Pudgy hands bunched on layered hip
Where bones idle under years of fa
And lima beans.
Her jowls shiver in accusation

You drink a bitter draught.
I sip the tears your eyes fight to
A cup of lees, of henbane steeped
Your breast is hot,
Your anger black and cold,

Give me your hand
Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.

I keep on dying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,

Soft grey ghosts crawl up my sleev
to peer into my eyes
while I within deny their threats
and answer them with lies.
Mushlike memories perform

I’ve got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry

He bad
O he bad
He make a honky
poot. Make it honky’s
blue eyes squint

She came home running
back to the mothering blackness
deep in the smothering blackness
white tears icicle gold plains of
She came home running

FOR DAVID P—B
The eye follows, the land
Slips upward, creases down, forms
The gentle buttocks of a young
Giant. In the nestle,